Save Tonight
by Caitlyn Rose
Summary: Deacon has never missed a year. Not in more than two decades. (Rayna/ Deacon A.U)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Ok guys - let's play pretend. (What else is there to do?). Remember waaay back on the Rayna/ Juliette tour, when Rayna_ _drafted in Liam to play guitar? Let's say she didn't._

* * *

He has never missed a year. Not in more than two decades.

Not when he was in rehab, or when they were "giving each other space," or when the practical implications of delivery to another man's house might understandably have provided pause for thought. May 12th would roll around - coming faster every year, it seemed to Rayna - and there they'd be: wildflowers, no note, just some college kid telling her to _sign here_ and disappearing as soon as he'd arrived.

So, anyway, perhaps it should be no surprise, when she gets that knock on her hotel room door. And it isn't, really.

But still. Her breath hitches in her throat a little.

She sets the flowers on the dresser, and looks at them, and she bursts right into tears.

—

She hadn't asked Deacon to play with her on Red Lips White Lies. Given the circumstances surrounding their recently aborted tour à deux, she doesn't really think he would have expected her to.

He was with her for twenty-five years, though. Every dive bar and county fair, every awards show and sold-out arena, he was there. Even if only on the level of professional courtesy (which, as has been all too well established, is not quite exactly the only level on which the two of them operate) she should probably have involved him in the process of finding someone new. She should probably have told him, in the first place, that she was _embarking on a national tour with Juliette Barnes_. Despite everything, he had, after all, come to her about the Revel Kings offer and, if not quite asked for her permission, certainly done something that felt pretty close to that.

She must have called him a dozen times since she's been on the road. And is that consistent with "letting him go," with "not wanting to hold him back," with all those phrases she's uttered a million times now to herself and to him? No, perhaps, strictly speaking, it is not, but still she has called, from Cincinnati and Cleveland and St. Louis and Omaha. He hasn't answered once.

Rayna has been left with little option but to conclude that not only is Deacon elsewhere - a pretty significant problem in itself, as she's discovering - he appears to be elsewhere and _pissed_.

And it's a funny thing, really. She might have imagined that distance, discord, would feel like emptiness. Like the lack of something.

It doesn't, though. It's weighty.

It's crushing her.

After the flowers come, she lasts eight more days. Or, put another way, three more guitar players.

—

She knows it's stupid when she's instructing Bucky to make her excuses, to make discreet arrangements. (Sweet, worth-his-weight-in-gold Bucky, who has long since learned that in this particular domain at least, his is not to question why.)

She knows it's stupid when she's on the plane, and when she's picking up the hire car, and when she's sitting in gridlock in a city she doesn't know.

But, Rayna remembers her twenties (and, yes, beyond) well enough to know that it's still so, so far from the stupidest thing she has ever done because of this man.

So, there's that.

There's pretty much always that.

—

"… _Hi_."

He is, for obvious reasons, shocked to see her, and either lacks the time or lacks the inclination to stop his face from showing it.

"Hi," she replies simply, taking in everything about his appearance in the space of three seconds. She'd gotten good at that, back in the day. "Thank you for the flowers."

Deacon blinks. "You're welcome."

Then, a little frown, his eyes narrowing, because he's a seasoned detective too by now, when it comes to her. "You alright? I know the anniversary... can be rough on you."

"Yeah, I just…I don't know. We don't have another show 'til Friday and I...I guess I thought it'd be nice to see you."

There is a second's quiet, during which the inadequacy, the vague ridiculousness, of her explanation hangs between them, obvious and excruciating. Rayna wonders whether he's going to call bullshit now or later.

She'd probably guess the former - but (not for the first time) he surprises her.

"Sure," Deacon says, wary but going-with-it. "Come on in."

He pulls the door open and stands aside, and Rayna walks into a fancy hotel suite that looks, in all essential respects, pretty much exactly like the one she left this morning.

"Nice room."

She's scanning the surroundings restlessly and looks, he thinks, somehow not quite sure what to do with herself.

"Thanks."

She turns back around to face him as he closes the door.

"So, I saw the show," she says, some attempt at injecting some brightness into her voice.

"You did?"

She nods. "Well, missed the first twenty minutes or so. The traffic in this town is something else."

"You a secret Revel Kings fan, Rayna?" Deacon asks, a little impatiently. He is already frankly pretty perplexed by her mere presence in Austin. That she seems to want to talk to him about the traffic just feels like a bridge too far.

She swallows, gives a little shrug.

"I'm a Deacon Claybourne fan," she says quietly.

And there's something so tentative about her voice, so vulnerable about the look on her face, that he can't help but see this for what it is: an olive branch, a plea for his forgiveness.

It's one thing - among several, actually - that Deacon has just never felt in much of a position to deny her.

He offers her a tiny half-smile in response, and it's not much - but it's enough.

Enough for her to edge a little towards him, and for him to edge a little towards her, and for them to fall into each other inelegantly. Their limbs seem to know this choreography, though, seem to have it committed to muscle memory, and he slides his arms around her waist, his hands splayed across her lower back and shoulder blade. Her arms curl tightly around his neck, until they're flush against one another, surrounded by one another, and she sighs deeply against the soft flannel of his shirt. She can't help it. It's just such a relief, such a comfort, to have the distance gone.

That's always been the kicker, really, hasn't it? Even the fighting she can take - they both can, they can go toe-to-toe for twelve rounds and still not be ready to give up on each other - but Rayna finally knows herself well enough to know that she seems to need, just as a sort of baseline requirement, to be able to see him, speak to him.

She didn't ask for it to be that way, but that's the way it is.

—

They order room service. Burgers, fries, onion rings - the type of stuff Rayna tries not to eat at any time, but particularly not at 11:45pm, and particularly not when she's in the middle of a tour.

Sitting on at opposite ends of a couch, though, trying not to get grease on either the furniture or themselves as the radio plays on low in the background, she's inclined to think the calories are worth it.

They talk, sort of carefully at first - the way it always is when things between them are recently repaired - but then more normally, about this and that, nothing in particular.

An old song comes on - Shania Twain - and it takes a while for either of them to notice it.

"What?" Rayna asks, when Deacon smirks in the general direction of the radio. " _Oh_."

She rolls her eyes a little goofily, singing along as the chorus kicks in. " _You're still the one I run toooo, the one that I belong toooo, you're still the one I want for life_ …"

He's smiling at her, and she shrugs, good-natured in defeat after all these years. "It's a good song."

"I don't think we were saying that when the charts came out that week."

"I think we definitely weren't," she agrees wryly.

Then, a moment later. "Hey Deacon?"

"Yeah?"

"Have I changed? From how I was back then?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know." Rayna purses her lips. "It's like... I look back, and I feel like I still recognize that girl, but sometimes I... I don't know if she would recognize me."

Deacon sighs, pausing a moment for thought.

"Everybody changes, Ray," he says then. "But, for what it's worth, I don't think you've changed that much."

"Really?"

He shrugs. "I think you're different with other people, a little, but I don't think you're different with me."

A beat.

"Obviously some parts are different."

Rayna swallows.

Obviously.

"How about me?" he's asking her now, and she's glad of the distraction.

"Mmmmm," she makes a show of considering it. "I guess you're a _little_ bit more zen these days," she says, flashing him a quick smile. Her eyes soften when they meet his, though, her voice fading to a murmur. "But, mostly you're the same too."

They go back to their food after that, picking at french fries intently, reaching across each other for coleslaw and ketchup, listening to the song on the radio.

"...They were beautiful this year, you know," Rayna says at some point, a propos of nothing much, in that same soft voice. "Bluebells, daisies…mama woulda loved 'em."

Then, barely more than a whisper, "She woulda loved you."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

Deacon smiles a little. "Sure woulda been nice to have one parent rootin' for me."

Rayna just quirks an eyebrow in return. "For you and me both."

* * *

 _TBC? ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

Deacon wakes to the smooth, inconsequential patter of a late night radio DJ, the whole suite still lit up like a store window.

He rubs at the crick in his neck, and slowly gets up to turn everything off, trying not to disturb Rayna in the process.

The goddamn lights, though. Why, he wonders grouchily, do all hotel rooms seem to be designed like this? Some switches do nothing at all, some turn off several lights at once, and some bulbs don't appear to have a cord or switch anywhere in their vicinity. Deacon resorts to a haphazard approach that has more in common with a game of whack-a-mole than anything else - albeit an unusually lethargic one - and he's down to just one floor lamp in the sitting room and another in the bedroom still illuminated when Rayna's eyelids start to flicker.

She's curled in the foetal position on the couch and he watches the first few seconds of confusion on her face as she takes in the unfamiliar surroundings, the frown until her eyes land on him.

"Did I fall asleep?" she asks, and her voice sounds thick and southern, like it always used to in the mornings. He hadn't forgotten that, but the reminder makes something tighten in his chest just the tiniest bit.

"We both did," he answers lightly.

She blinks. "How long for?"

"Not long," - he glances at his watch - "like forty minutes or so."

Rayna tries to rally, swinging her legs onto the floor, rubbing both hands across her eyes and down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. You must be exhausted, you had a show tonight. Guess I must be pretty tired too. I… I don't even have a room," she mumbles then, as though this thought is only just occurring to her. "I don't know - I didn't think, I just came straight here. I better get myself downstairs and hope there's room at the inn."

It's entirely still and quiet around them now, not a sound from the surrounding rooms or the city outside. On the seventeenth floor of some address in Texas neither of them could cite, it feels a little like they might just as well be the only two people in the world.

Deacon looks at her, his eyes narrowing a little. "Does anybody know you're here, Rayna?"

"...Yeah."

"Anybody apart from Bucky?"

Rayna pauses, purses her lips in what could be vague amusement, could be vague annoyance. It's been both, in the twenty five years he's been seeing right through her.

"Mmm. Not _as such_ ," she admits, which has always seemed to her a more appealing way of saying no.

Deacon nods. A _that's what i thought_. "How long you reckon it's gon' stay that way if you show up at reception - _from upstairs_ \- at 2am in the morning?"

She raises an eyebrow, wincing a little as she considers the prospect. Back in the day? No problem. Or at least, _probably_ no problem. But it's 2013, and a lot of damage can be done in 140 characters or less.

She looks at him, a question in her eyes, and he just shrugs.

He will never ever have it in him to tell Rayna Jaymes to leave - never _wants_ to have it in him. But he won't beg her to stay either.

"Up to you," he says softly, like it really _is_ up to her. He nods towards the archway into the bedroom. "I reckon that bed's about big enough for a football team, so…whatever you want."

She thinks about it for a second or two, which, possibly, is nowhere near long enough. But it's just that she's tired. It's just that by now, she has _already_ spent _so much time_ trying to navigate these particular waters. And all the many minutes and hours of planning and back-pedalling and general analysis, she'd have to conclude, have not ultimately seemed to do anybody a whole lot of good. Certainly, in terms of forging some path that might have led far away from a hotel suite in which she and Deacon Claybourne would have the option of hopping in bed together, they've been an abject failure.

"Okay," she says quietly, her lips hardly moving, her eyes fixed on his. "I mean, if you don't mind."

Deacon just holds her gaze, shakes his head. He does't mind.

Then, without a word, he walks the few paces into the bedroom, flicking the light in the sitting room off as he goes, and Rayna finds herself trailing after him - no questions asked, no boundaries established. She just watches as he moves to the side of the bed that was always his, sets his watch on the nightstand, bends down to remove his shoes and socks. It's been such a long time since they've been alone like this, taking off the day together. Maybe not quite exactly as long as it should have been, but still. A long time.

His fingers shift to the button on his jeans, and Rayna runs a hand through her hair distractedly. As much for something to do as anything else, she follows suit, going to to the other side of the bed, pushing her own jeans over her hips. The whole thing feels like it's happening in slow motion.

He looks over at her when he's down to his t-shirt, and she's down to her thin cotton sweater. She swallows thickly.

"Uhh…will you just get that light?" he asks hoarsely, nodding towards the lamp behind her.

She swallows again, obliges, feels a shiver of something as the room is cast abruptly into darkness.

And, each pulling back the covers, they crawl into bed.

* * *

A/N - I know, so short. But, I didn't forget about this one, and I promise I'll write more if you want.


	3. Chapter 3

They lie there, the dim glow of street lamps still shining through the curtains a little, and Deacon focuses on keeping his breathing quiet and even.

He hadn't lied about the bed. It's plenty roomy - there must be three feet of space left between them - but still. This is not exactly within their normal sphere of activity.

A _more normal_ thing, he suddenly thinks, might have been for one of them to take the couch. It hadn't even occurred to him to suggest that until now, though. He lets himself wonder if it occurred to Rayna; if she deliberately pushed the thought away.

There's a kerfuffle on her side, and he can't help but steal a quick, curious glance in her direction. She's wriggling out of her bra, he realizes - pulling it down through the ams of her top discreetly - and he looks away until he hears the material drop to the floor on top of her jeans.

A minute passes.

Two.

Three.

Five.

Then: "Deacon. The tour - _my_ tour. It's awful."

They're each lying flat on their backs, gazing straight up at the ceiling, and she's finally getting to it. He had known she would, eventually.

"Not what I read in Rolling Stone Country," he replies lightly.

Rayna had read that review too, as it happened. _Jaymes is on top form, belting out the hits for a crowd that seems no less in love with her than ever._ But it hasn't been enough, she's found for the critics to be happy. It hasn't even really been enough for the audience to be happy.

"No, I don't mean…I mean for _me_ ," she replies disjointedly. Then, turning her head towards him, "for me without you."

Deacon turns to look at her too. Their eyes adjust to the dark, search out each other's features.

"I can't do it without you, Deacon," she says then, her voice low and urgent.

He doesn't even blink, "You can," he replies at once, and though Rayna knows he means it to soothe her, something about his confidence - when she feels like she's floundering right in front of him - actually irritates her somehow.

"So I don't want to, then. What's the difference?" she tosses back, just a little bit snappily.

It's enough to put Deacon's back up too, and his laugh when it comes is harsh and helpless. "I mean…I don't know what you want me to say here, Ray," he replies tersely. "You said I should take this other gig. You didn't even tell me you were going on the road. And hey, let's not forget - it was this side of Spring that you pretty much fired me."

"I know!" she cries, frustrated, and her voice rises, sounding anguished even to her own ears.

She looks up at the ceiling again, takes a breath, tries to settle herself.

"I know," she repeats, more quietly this time, rolling back over onto her side to look at him properly. Unconsciously, he mirrors her.

"I… I don't know why I did that, now," she admits. "Any of it. I wish I could just take it all back."

A beat.

Silence.

"Why _did_ you do it, Ray?" he asks then, sounding sincerely curious.

"C'mon," she murmurs; her go-to in the way of gentle evasion.

"What?"

(She's flown 800 miles and crawled into his bed, and in such a context Deacon isn't much inclined to be evaded if he can help it).

"You _know_."

"Right now? Honestly? I don't know _what_ in the hell I know," he replies frankly. "And y'know, either way - let's say I _do_ know. Still seems to me you oughta at least be able to say it out loud."

He sighs, his voice becoming gentler. "I just… I reckon this has gotten to a point now where we have to start sayin' stuff out loud, Ray."

And there's no demand or ultimatum to it - nothing harsh or threatening at all, but still Rayna feels a tightening in her chest. It's kind of a frightening prospect, plain and simple.

They said so much, shared such a glut, in the first twelve years of knowing one another that they've so far managed to survive this last twelve on a pretty meager diet of actual words.

Hunger can only be held off so long, though - Deacon's right.

Rayna scrunches her face into her pillow, because she knows he's right.

"Man," she half-laughs, half-groans, her voice muffled against the material. A minute later, she peeps up at him again, working her forearm under her head. "I know this is pretty rich, coming from me, but sometimes I really wish you and I could still have a drink together, Deacon. Or, _several_. Know what I mean?"

Deacon smiles, a little sadly. He doesn't need to ask why. There's no denying that some conversations would just be a little bit easier with the looseness, the bravery, that a few whiskeys could bring.

"You wanna crack open the mini bar?" he jokes, half-heartedly, and she laughs, half-heartedly, before they lapse into silence again.

"Teddy's jealous of you," she says eventually, her voice small. "...Did you know that? It's not just that he doesn't like you - he doesn't, by the way," she adds dryly, prompting a smirk in return from Deacon. "He's jealous of you. And I...well. I've gotten a lot worse at convincing him not to be. I've gotten a lot less _interested_ in doing that, I guess, is the thing."

Deacon nods, tries to absorb this information, to fill the spaces around it. Rayna has never complained to him about her marriage before - at least not directly like this. "Aright, so, ok, what…what does that mean?" he asks falteringly.

She shrugs. "It's just…what it is, I guess."

Her answer is obtuse, deliberately so, and they both know it. This habit of deflection just comes too easily now, it's almost reflexive.

"Well, what _are_ you interested in doing, Ray?" he presses.

Rayna lets out a short, sudden laugh. "You're what I'm interested in doing," she tosses out drolly, almost to herself, and Deacon watches the shock register on her own face a split second later.

"I...oh my god, sorry, that was...I don't know, god," she attempts, quick and jumbled, but of course it's too late. Her answer can't be snatched back now, and this is _horrifying_. Horrifying doesn't, in fact, go even half way towards covering it.

She feels utterly paralyzed, seconds stretching out agonisingly, endlessly, and Deacon's expression is frozen too, she notes - until it's not anymore, until it melts, gives way to a soft chuckle.

And even as the heat floods through Rayna's cheeks, somehow the sound - just the familiarity, the warmth of it - is comforting to her.

She exhales lightly. "...Sorry," she says again, but she manages a bashful smile now, a roll of her eyes.

"S'alright," he says, his lips curving upward in a languid half-smile. "There are worse things a guy could hear."

Rayna raises an eyebrow, nods her acknowledgement. He's probably right on that one. "And, not exactly new information, right?"

No response.

"Oh Deacon, you knew," she prompts, all scepticism. Then, a little more shyly, " _Of course_ you knew that."

He'd known it when they walked across the bridge that afternoon, she thinks, and when they did _No-One Will Ever Love You_ at The Bluebird; a dozen different times in the last six months alone.

"And ol' Teddy knows it too, huh?" Deacon replies, blowing past the question again, the lofty little rise in his voice telling Rayna everything she needs to know.

"I think so, yeah," she says mildly. "Pretty much. Anyhow, I should never have cancelled our tour." It feels like even as she's saying it, she's realizing just how true that is. It feels like suddenly, something seems to have de-fuzzed, shifted into perfect clarity. Suddenly she knows what she's about to say to him, and she knows that it will make everything different.

"I was trying to just keep everything on an even keel at home," she explains. "You know, smooth the waters or whatever with Teddy, but we're…" she takes a deep breath, swallows the lurch in her stomach. "...We're going to get divorced anyway, and now I have to deal with Juliette Barnes every damn day, so cancelling our tour, it does feel like...I don't know, kind of a false economy, at this point."

And it's glib, inelegant - she can hear that herself, of course - but it's the only way she could get the words out. She laughs self-consciously.

"...How's that for saying stuff out loud?"

* * *

A/N: I don't normally write long author's notes, but I just wanted to thank all those who reviewed on the last chapter - there were lots of guests I can't reach out to any other way but your reviews were such an encouragement. One person did comment that I should write because I have a story to tell, rather than because I think people want to read it - as I guess was indicated by my remark at the end of the last chapter - but actually, the truth is that when it comes to fanfic in particular, I _do_ write mostly because I think/ hope there are people out there who want to read it! So, thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

Silence, and she feels the need to fill it.

"You're the first person that I've told. Including Teddy, actually," she adds, and again there's that slightly throwaway air in her delivery, that terror even she knows is poorly-concealed.

If it surprises Deacon, that Rayna might convey this information to him before her husband - to anybody, really, before her husband - he doesn't make any comment upon it. His interest in how things might affect Teddy Conrad, no matter the context, has never really deviated much from a hard zero.

"When y'all got married I reckon I musta been the last person you told," he says, though he really has no idea why. It is just, for whatever reason, the thing that pops into his head unbidden.

Rayna's mind whizzes back in time. "Yeah," she says then, nodding slowly. "I think that's probably true."

And if there's a quicker way to sum up this last thirteen years of her life, she can't think of it.

"Did something happen?" Deacon asks eventually, when it's clear she's lost in thought, about done with dropping bombshells for the moment.

Rayna snaps back to the here and now. "No." She swallows, feels her heartbeat start to return to something a little more akin to normal. "I mean, he lost a ton of money. _My_ money...and, like, _really_ a lot. It was kind of a sketchy situation. Plus, you know, there was that whole thing with Peggy Kenter. But...none of that has anything to do with it, really."

"So, what, then? Why?"

Rayna exhales loudly. "It's just been such a long time coming," she says vaguely. "And I think I've been holding on because it's like, if we get divorced _now_ , then... what have I been doing, you know? We may as well have gotten divorced a year ago, or three years ago, or five years ago. _Jesus_ ," she mutters, like even she can hardly believe that this particular writing really has been on the wall for that long. "But when I left for this tour…I don't know. We said we'd take some space, just see what happened, maybe a little bit of distance would be good and all that, but really I…I think I knew even before the tour started. And then once it _had_ …"

" _What_?" Deacon presses again, a little more urgency creeping into his voice now.

Somehow, the space between them seems to have shrunk, and with his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, he can see every freckle on her face, can see the cogs turning carefully in her mind too, it feels like.

"Well, let me put it this way," she says at last, because _fuck it_ , she thinks; she's come this far. "My husband lost a bunch of my money in a shitty illegal deal. He got in bed with my father - metaphorically speaking - and he may or may not have had an affair with some woman he knew from college. And you want to know what's been the biggest problem in my life lately, Deacon?" She swallows. "The… _most painful_ thing?"

He just waits.

"It's looking across that stage and seeing a stranger," she says then softly. "It's calling your number and getting a dial tone."

"- Sorry, it was totally fair that you didn't want to talk to me," she rushes to add, before Deacon can so much as think about responding. "I know we covered that, I should've told you about the tour, I should've done everything different."

She exhales a little, and Deacon feels like his brain is scrambling to process all of this, struggling to figure out how to give voice to the question on the tip of his tongue.

Again, though, she gets in before he can try.

"I think, before this tour, things at home have been…you know, just however they've been," Rayna continues, with a little laugh. "But things at work have always been good. I could always…"

She trails off, and Deacon isn't sure if she doesn't _know_ how to fill in the blank, or doesn't want to, or just doesn't think it's necessary. And maybe he's being really dense here. She used to poke fun at him, actually - marvel at how, for all his poetic lyrics, for all his sensitivity and observational skill, there were still some times - admittedly, not often with her, but in general - when he was _such a guy._ When the things between the lines went blithely unread.

For all his confusion right now, it's clear enough to Deacon the vital importance that this _not_ be one of those times.

"Ray." He shifts in bed, pushing himself upright, one shoulder propped against the headboard. "I'm gonna ask you something here, alright?" he says, his voice quiet and intense. "And I'm not asking you for... any kind of commitment or... explanation or... nothin', except for to tell me the truth. Even just this one time."

It's such a simple request, so humbly issued, that Rayna can't help but feel like she physically aches inside somehow. Instinctively, she shimmies upwards too, her position mirroring his. This all feels very serious. "Okay," she agrees, finding her throat dry when she speaks.

"Are you still in love with me?"

Rayna sucks a breath in sharply through her nose, feels her heart beat thunderously in her chest. It doesn't take her long to answer, though, the barest hint of incredulity in her tremulous voice.

"Of course I am."

She watches his eyes widen just the slightest bit in what looks like wonder. They're watering a little, or maybe it's a trick of the light, but she feels like she could cry herself now.

"Can I ask you?" she says.

Deacon swallows, nods.

"Are you still in love with me?" she asks, and Deacon nods once more.

"Say it," she urges quietly, lips barely moving, her eyes fixed on his.

"Yes. I…" he tries to figure out how put into words that he has always, always, been in love with her, that he can neither remember nor imagine any other way of being, that he …" _Yes_ ," is all he can manage, again, fervently.

It's good enough.

They look at each other, each letting out what might be a laugh or might be a cry and, like a dam has broken, they reach for one another, clinging together in a fierce hug. Rayna takes in the smell of him, the solidity and warmth of him, and for what might be seconds or might be minutes as they clutch at one another, it feels like every happy memory she's got in the world.

Deacon smooths his hands over her hair, down her cheeks, tilts her face up to his and then he's moving in closer, closer, exactly where she want him. _But_.

"I…I can't," she says falteringly, and as she sees his face start to fall, she reaches up quickly to pull his hands away, clasping them between both of hers. " _Yet_. Someday the girls are going to ask me about Teddy, and about you," she tries to explain. "I just know it. They're going to ask me if their family split in two because I was having an affair. And I need to be able to look them in the eye and say no."

Deacon takes this in, nods his understanding.

"I mean, I realize it's a grey area," she adds knowingly, just for the record, looking down at their interlocked fingers. "Like, what's an affair made of, really? But I don't think Maddie and Daphne are gonna think about the grey - or at least not for a long time. I think the black and white of it will be enough for them."

"I get it," Deacon murmurs, because he really does. And while he knows for sure that he could kiss Rayna Jaymes senseless this very minute, he also knows that he can wait for her. Although one might undeniably be a more appealing option than the other, he's well practiced in both.

"But you're…you're gonna be single," he adds carefully. "Soon."

"Yeah."

"And I'm gonna be single…"

"Well that's kind of what I'm…you know. _Yeah_ ," she replies, sounding a little flustered somehow. "If you could be single that would be…good."

And there's something so adolescent about the whole thing, so very reminiscent of the kids they once were, that they both start to laugh. They _giggle_.

"Can I...you're so beautiful," Deacon spills out then, like a confession. "Can I tell you that, at least? I swear to god every damn time I see you I just want to say it out loud."

Rayna smiles shyly, the warmth blooming in her chest and spreading outwards until it reaches all the way to her fingers and toes. And it's a funny thing really, because she hears those words - or words like them - all the time, from journalists, or fans, or friends. But they have not _ever_ felt they way they do when he says them.

"You are too," she replies, eyes glassy, and it pleases her, somehow, that he isn't the type of man to scoff at the adjective when it's applied to him. He just tightens his grip on her hands, looks at her so tenderly that she can't help but let a few tears fall.

He wipes them away with his thumb and she closes her eyes, feeling her whole body hum.

There's some part of her, of course, that knows this isn't quite the happy ending. There are still some difficult days, difficult conversations ahead - with Teddy and the girls, and probably with Deacon too. But, right now, in this exact moment, the overwhelming feeling is of a peacefulness she hasn't had in years.

She she opens her eyes again, smiles sweetly at him, and then snuggles back down in bed. He follows, their bodies angled towards each other, as close as they can be without touching.

"I kept waiting for you to go bald or something," she murmurs wryly a minute later, for levity's sake. "But then every year you'd just get better looking, and it was just like, _jesus_ , you know? _I can't catch a break_."

He just chuckles at that, never one to fish for more compliments. "Let's go to sleep, okay? What time do you have to fly back tomorrow?"

"Not till like 5 o'clock-isn. So, I have the day."

 _We_ have the day.

"Perfect," he says, smiling lazily, and they're both quiet for a while before she speaks again.

"It's funny, isn't it?" she muses. "You're here, playing stadiums with a rock band. I'm out with Juliette, lookin' at arena full of twelve-year-old faces every night. Or, half-full of 'em, at least. Pretty different from the tour we planned, huh?"

"Pretty different," he agrees. Then, lightly, like it's not just about the most significant thing he could propose, "Maybe we can still do our tour some day."

She nods. "I'd like that. Even if we didn't sell a single ticket, I'd do it. I miss the music so much," she says, and it feels nice to admit that at last.

"Me too."

"Look I know you're under contract with the Revel Kings here. I know you can't just up and leave this tour. But just until you're done, can you help me find a guitar player who doesn't totally suck?"

"Rayna," he says slowly, and suddenly he's hoisting himself up on his elbow, wide awake again, like he can't believe this hasn't been apparent to her. "I can _totally_ leave this tour. I fuckin' _hate_ this tour."

He's dead serious, that frustrated, wholly animated look on his face that she knows so well, and Rayna just can't help it. She laughs and laughs. And it feels good.

* * *

A/N - I don't watch Nashville anymore. But I've loved seeing some of my favorite stories continue to be updated, and so thought I'd try and finish this one, in hopes it might similarly brighten someone else's day! :)


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